


Mirrors

by cmut (confiscatedretina)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Forced Masturbation, Masturbation, Other, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confiscatedretina/pseuds/cmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You broke all the mirrors in your hive sweeps ago, the day you learned what your blood color meant. These mirrors refuse to break. They don't even have the decency to smudge.</p><p>/Karkat: look./</p><p>It's the last thing you want to do and you've been avoiding it for however long you've been trapped in here. But what the fuck is there left? So you look, weary and sad, into the face of your enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I've made myself sad.
> 
> "It's a hero's journey thing that the hero faces one challenge completely alone. It's some kind of mental thing, where the hero has something to learn.
> 
> "But lets imagine the game gives them a sexual challenge."
> 
> Fill for the [kink meme](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/40248.html?thread=46710328#cmt46710328) (click to see the original prompt in full).

Sand grains skipping across glass wakes you from a fitful doze. Nervous, on edge, you watch the words coalesce at your side, their bright red coloration reflected beneath them.

_Karkat: love thyself._

“Fuck you,” a rough whisper, gritty with tiredness, tight with barely contained panic.

It's not the first time the words have appeared before you. How long you've been in this room, lit with an unpleasantly familiar red light that has no source, you don't know. Long enough to have fallen asleep amid a thousand quiet, naked reflections of the creature you hate most in all the universes. You screamed yourself hoarse the first time the game sent you that message, squeezed your eyes shut so you wouldn't have to look at the disgusting pile of shit passing itself off as a person: one Karkat Vantas. You hate him, hate yourself, and that's all you have in here. It makes your blood pusher hurt in that deep, aching way you've spent a lifetime ignoring.

“I'd rather die.”

_Would you?_

You raise a middle finger from your dark corner and a thousand reflections flip you off.

“Asshole.”

A dozen yellow eyes look at their drawn up knees. You lock gazes with one of the reflections and a tired, defeated, pitiable troll looks back. Red-tinted tears swim in his eyes.

“Stop,” you reach out a hand and fingers meet cool glass.

_Love thyself._

“I hate this fucker.”

_Do you?_

Something wrenching and cracked worms out of your throat: a sob. You bury your face in your knees and claw at your hair, the sound tearing out of you oddly muted by the glass. The sob turns into a snarl and you throw a punch at the nearest tear-streaked, grimacing face you see. When your knuckles crack against glass you howl and kick back, one bare foot shrieking down the mirror's surface. You scream and claw at yourself until all you can do is gasp for breath, panting as you lie on one side.

You broke all the mirrors in your hive sweeps ago, the day you learned what your blood color meant. These mirrors refuse to break. They don't even have the decency to smudge.

_Karkat: look._

It's the last thing you want to do and you've been avoiding it for however long you've been trapped in here. But what the fuck is there left? So you look, weary and sad, into the face of your enemy.

“You're a god damn mess,” you reach a hand toward your reflection and sniffle loudly.

He gives you a sad, exhausted half smile, one cheek mashed flat on the floor. A small laugh hiccups out of you. Pushing yourself upright with one arm, you wipe the snot and tears off your face with the other. The Karkat looking back at you sits cross-legged and hunched, deep bags under bloodshot eyes, stubby horns almost hidden by a wild mane of black hair. You watch yourself reach up to one of those horns and are half surprised by the light, faintly disorienting sense of pressure where fingers touch yellowed keratin. It feels kind of nice.

“I wish they were bigger,” you say.

Letting your eyes fall shut, you focus on the feel of warmth and light pressure circling so close to your scalp. The sound of fingers in motion hushes through your aural clots like waves breaking and it feels like something is gently rocking you. When you were small, Crabdad used to screech at you for doing this too long. But he's not here and nobody else can see. It's soothing and you've always kind of liked how smooth your horns are under your fingers, how you can feel the warmth of body heat so close to your head.

Sand rustles and you open your eyes to see a dreamy-faced, relaxed troll before you. He smiles sheepishly.

_Karkat: look._

“I won't tell anyone,” you pat yourself between the horns. “God, this is weird.”

Naturally he agrees with you and the thought that it's nice to have something in common makes you snort.

_Look._

“At what?” your reflection gestures at you. “I've seen this asshole. There's nothing else to look at!”

_Look._

You lean closer to your reflection, so close you can feel the humidity of your own breath rebounding off the glass. You make a face, scrunching your eyes weirdly and sticking your tongue halfway between two fangs. A small laugh escapes and you realize this asshole has a nice smile. He should do that more.

The glass is warm against your lips.

“Well. It's not like anyone saw that,” you can't meet your eyes, a blush staining your cheeks.

_Love._

The troll in the mirrors looks suddenly afraid, a burden weighing down his shoulders that has always been there and always been too heavy. He curls back in on himself, watching you like a cornered animal.

_Karkat: love._

You reach out a wary hand, palms meeting in glass. He's an intimate stranger and the realization hurts deeply. You squeeze your eyes shut only to hear sand whispering on glass again.

_Karkat: look._

“I can't do this. Don't make me do this.”

_Look. Love._

There's no coldness or free flowing air to make you feel exposed, but you don't want him to look at you. After several minutes, red sand grains itch up your foot until you can't help but kick. The motion throws you off balance and your eyes fly open as you slam against a wall. He looks at you, angry and scared, teeth showing, eyes wide. You slide along the glass with a soft noise until you're huddled next to, across from, beside him. At least you're all naked.

Snarling, you make yourself sit up and glare. You don't realize you're trying to stare down your own damn reflection until your eyes start to burn.

“What is wrong with me?” you grumble, sinking back against a mirror. “Besides the obvious. You're not anyone important. You're not anyone at all.”

You look that crumpling face on the verge of tears right in the eyes.

“You're nobody, Karkat Vantas.”

There's nothing to stop the tears now. They are aching and quiet, punctuated only with the sound of soft, hitching breaths. You watch them slide down your cheeks a dozen, a hundred, a thousand fold, watch your shoulders shake and fingers dig into your arms until they prick blood from the skin. You're naked and alone, a stunted thing with nubby horns and dull fangs, shivering while red dribbles down your face.

“I don't want to hate you.”

Your head comes to rest on unyielding glass and you whimper next to yourself. Bloodshot, watery eyes stare at you and your hand lifts on instinct to reach for that pathetic face. Instead, you watch and feel as it comes to rest on your cheek. Fingers gently brush away one tear.

_Look. Love._

“Shh,” you tell yourself, ignoring the sand.

One hand caressing your cheek, the other unclenching from your arm, you breathe and you look. The body you've kept hidden under baggy clothes isn't so bad. It's filled out well enough, dense and muscled. A smirk lifts one corner of your mouth: the pale old scars crossing your skin are pretty cool. You trace one down your side, not even sure how you got it anymore. Absently patting the hair between your horns, you slowly uncurl to get a better look at yourself. It is kind of cool, in a painfully novel way, to be able to see all of you at once.

_Love._

The word is rustling down your thigh, itching and invasive. Growling, you brush it away. You scratch the spot and leave your hand where it is, warm fingers draped against your skin. It's pretty fucking obvious at this point what you've been goaded into. Your reflection smirks at you and rolls his eyes.

“No kidding.”

If he weren't you, this guy could be kind of attractive in his way. You smile shyly at yourself and watch your hand slide up your thigh with an odd thrill. Having to watch like this makes you more than a little giddy. The combined sight and feel of your own fingers brushing against your nook opening makes you gasp. A blush is creeping over your face, tongue peeking between your fangs as you stroke along that increasingly scarlet line of flesh. The tip of your bulge peeks out and you groan unhappily: it's as red as your blood.

Sighing, your hand drops and you scrub at your eyes with the other one. “Why are you such a freak?”

Fingers caress that brilliant red tip and you make a sound between misery and shivering ecstasy. The first hint of sweet is on your tongue and you lick at your fangs, swallowing convulsively. You lean back, closing your eyes while you finger your bulge.

_Karkat: lo-_

You slam your free hand down on the sand. “I know! I fucking get it, alright?!”

Angry, legs spread apart, you watch your fingers pluck at that hideous abomination you call a bulge. It's like watching a squawk beast pecking at dirt noodles. One dirt noodle. Really fat and ugly. You choke out a snorting laugh through your misery and wrap your hand more firmly around the offensive appendage. The feel of it soft and hot and squirming in your palm makes you thrum quietly.

Taking a deep breath, you move your free hand down to stroke at your nook. It's damp and hot and a thrill worms up your spine when you slip two fingers inside. You bite your lip as you come into contact with engorged shame globes, a shock of pleasure darting through your veins. Red is pooling in the corner of your mouth and you hastily lick it away.

The look you give yourself in the mirrors is smoldering. Eyes half lidded, fangs showing, bulge extending and twisting around one set of fingers while the other is almost three knuckles deep in your nook. On a whim, you run your tongue slowly over those exposed fangs; the sight makes you purr and you swallow another mouthful of genetic material. The pressure is already building between your eyes.

Moving your hands in tandem along bulge and inside nook, you watch yourself from several angles. The arc of back, the curl of toes, fingers thrusting in and out, dancing up and down. Your breath is coming in gasps and your lips have curled away from your glinting fangs. They look fierce this way and it makes your blood sing.

It's the burning gold of your eyes that does you in. Panting, tasting viscous sweetness so rich you can smell it, you glare triumph at yourself and everything shatters in ecstasy. Moaning low and long, you watch your body curl in on itself, an arc of brilliant ruby brighter than your blood splattering between your knees. Gasping, whimpering, you let the genetic material drip down your chin while your fingers twitch at bulge and nook.

With a small noise, you pull your wet fingers out and smear them across the mirror's surface. There are tears coursing down your cheeks and vivid red on your chin. You lean your forehead on the glass as if you could will it to make your reflection real.

“Is that good enough for you?” the words crack and echo.

Shivering, you realize you are alone in the cave you entered just before finding the mirror room. An ornate key lies pillowed in your folded clothes on a plinth surrounded by clear, clean water. Your blood pusher hurts and your hoarse sobs echo off a distant rocky ceiling. Something inside you is cracked open now and it bleeds, raw and aching around the edges.

You are Karkat Vantas: mutant, nobody. You hate yourself so much. You love yourself deep down inside and the realization is the worst pain you've ever felt.

“Fuck you,” it's too softly said to echo in the cold dark. “Fuck me.”


End file.
